


The Case of the Bohemian Bachelor

by fiveainley_ohmy



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Kiss, Irene Adler - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Story: A Scandal in Bohemia, Story: The Adventure of the Copper Beeches, Story: The Adventure of the Empty House, Violet Hunter - Freeform, Watson is pretty damn smart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 03:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7418275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveainley_ohmy/pseuds/fiveainley_ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson has a puzzle of his own to solve about the great consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Bohemian Bachelor

_From the private files of Dr. John H. Watson:_

It was shortly after I proposed marriage to Miss Mary Morstan that my dear friend Sherlock Holmes and I met with Miss Violet Hunter and her titillating mystery of the misanthropic Rucastle household. Miss Hunter had come along at a time when my friend was wanton for a good adventure, a satisfactory challenge to meet, and I daresay she brought him one. At the time I believed, from the way Holmes was intrigued by her, took note of her exquisitely beautiful chestnut hair, and had called her exceptional, that he was taken with her. But looking back now, I realize it was only the puzzle she brought with her that captivated him.

In our long friendship, I had often wondered whether Holmes had ever had women in his life, but I had never been so forward as to ask. I suppose I assumed his heart had been badly broken at one time - perhaps a lady he loved had died before they could wed - and that was why he sternly refused the company of women now. But the more I thought on it, the more curious I grew. It was after the case of the Copper Beeches that I finally worked up the nerve to inquire.

“Will you keep in touch with her?” I asked him as an introductory statement to this subject. I of course was referring to Miss Hunter.

Holmes had been steadily smoking his pipe and seemed taken by surprise by my question. “Why, no. Why should I? I doubt our dear Miss Hunter should need our services again, and if she does, she has our-” Holmes paused. " _My_ address.” I was to move out in a couple of weeks following my wedding.

“But...you were charmed by her, no?”

“As any man can be by such a remarkable young lady, Watson. She reminded me of a younger sister, had I one."

His siblingly regard toward our client nixed any suspicions I had that he was attracted to her, but I had to persist. “So you were not enamored with her?”

Holmes seemed very surprised. “Enamored? Surely not.” He laughed. “Wherever did you get such a notion? Enamored indeed.”

He seemed so amused by the idea that I immediately felt ridiculous for thinking such a thing (although it was a perfectly sound hypothesis) and let the matter drop.

Months passed before I gave the subject another thought. I did have my wedding, and my practice to focus on. I found myself missing my friend, however, and one night called upon him, which resulted in me getting involved in one of his most sensational cases. You readers of _The Strand_ may know that story as “A Scandal In Bohemia”.

If you recall, Holmes kept Irene Adler’s gift to the King, a simple portrait of herself, as payment for his services. And a lovely portrait it was. The Woman's beauty was second only to my dear departed Mary. Was it so absurd an idea that Holmes was in love with her?

Holmes had laughed then as well when I asked if he was too terribly heartbroken that Miss Adler had slipped away and married another. Said he, “My dear Watson, I knew the Woman for all of twenty collective minutes, on which both occasions I was incognito. How could you possibly expect that I could fall in love with someone in so limited an amount of time, and under such circumstances?”

“Well, she is very beautiful,” I reasoned.

“Beauty is a social construct, and of very little substance, or importance to me. She had a mind to be admired, surely, but when it comes to matters of love, there are other points that factor in. Loyalty. Respect. Trust. Shared experiences. Captivation. Devotion. That certain unspoken mutual understanding of the souls which binds one person to another.”

“Why, Holmes, that was positively beautiful,” I marveled. “You may mock me for being a romantic, but you seem to have a wonderfully idealistic view of love, for a man who abstains from it so ardently.”

Holmes turned from where he was staring out the window to give me a very odd look. “And who says I abstain from loving, Watson?” he whispered.

I did not ask any further questions, although my tongue burned with the desire to. I assumed Holmes had a secret sweetheart but was too shy to express his feelings to her, whether it was Violet Hunter or Irene Adler or a lucky lady I did not know. The look in his eyes told me it brought him great heartache, so I thought it kinder to let him suffer in silence.

In the weeks that followed, I found myself dwelling more and more on Holmes’s definition of love. To my unease, I found myself reviewing my own marriage, using his criteria as a basis for quality.

Were Mary and I loyal to each other? Absolutely. Did we share mutual respect? Undoubtedly. Did we trust each other? Well...as much as two married persons could, I supposed. Neither of us were terribly secretive people, but had I a secret, I believe I could trust her with it.

Shared experiences?...to a certain degree. We were married, weren't we? Captivation? Could I honestly say Mary captivated me? Perhaps when we first met, the first exciting whispers of courtship in the air. But once we were settled together...perhaps not as much. Was I devoted to her? It was not the same thing as loyalty, I found. I could not honestly say I was.

And last of all...that unspoken mutual understanding Holmes had talked of. The indescribable binding of the souls. The more I dwelt on it, I realized we did not have it. I was very fond of Mary, and will always hold her in the highest regard in my mind. But I feared very much that I was not in love with my wife.

My thoughts turned to Holmes. He loved, but did not act upon his feelings. He drowned his emotions in his work, or his experiments, or the cocaine bottle. Like the way he had done when I announced my engagement to Mary-

Suddenly, it all became clear to me.

Holmes, while choosing to remain celibate and alone, had desires alright. But they were not for women.

I found myself flattered and astounded that the great consulting detective could be in love with me. I was not sure at first, but by the time he pitched himself from the Reichenbach falls with Professor Moriarty, when I read his parting letter, I was sure of it. I felt a deep, deep sadness when he left me, a wound to the heart that would never mend, until three years later.

You may think I felt repulsion at the realization that my best friend was an invert. But I cannot say that I felt as such. I had been in the army. I knew the touch of a man. I had had experiences. I had never entered a long term dalliance with a male for obvious reasons, but I did find them attractive on occasion, in the same way I was drawn to ladies. But Holmes...

The more I pondered it, the more I realized why I would never be in love with my wife. My heart belonged to Sherlock Holmes.

My sweet Mary passed two years after Holmes did, and God bless her for all she did for me while he was gone. For a good while, I was alone, my spirits submerged in the very deepest pits of depression. But then, a miracle...

“My dear Watson,” my angel murmured when I woke from my shocked faint. “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea you would be so affected.”

Naturally I heavily censored the edition for _The Strand_ , but that night I informed him quite plainly that I was desperately in love with him and that he had better not ever, _ever_ think of leaving me like that again. “I promise, old friend, I promise,” gasped a very surprised, yet delighted Holmes, accepting a tight hug from me. He let me hold him for several minutes, then gently cupped my face and pressed his lips to mine. I kissed him back, moaning my satisfaction. After wanting and loving him for so long, having him with me at last, in every way two people can be together, felt like coming home after a long and arduous war. And believe me, I know what that's like.

“John,” he said softly. “The hour is late and I am quite exhausted from my travels. Would you do me the honor of sleeping beside me?”

“My love, I should like to do you that honor every night for the rest of my life,” said I.

And I have. From that night on, Holmes was more than my best friend, he was my lover as well, and nothing has ever felt so right. We continued to solve crimes in London till Sherlock grew weary of the urban world and we relocated to Sussex. My dear partner is outside right now, tending his hives. I'm sure he has forgotten, but today is the anniversary of the day he came back to me and we began our life together anew. As a gift, I intend on telling him the tale of The Bohemian Bachelor, and how his Boswell solved the mystery for once. I hope he likes it. He always likes when I'm clever.


End file.
